“Good news, my lady.”
Fiona hiked a brow.
“The blue saloon is finished, and it's quite breathtaking! The game tables you selected are exquisite.”
Fiona's lower lip worked into a pout. “Would that I could see it.”
Trevor directed a kindly gaze at her. “You've got the rest of your life to spend there.” Then he pulled some squares of colored paper from his pocket. “I've found just the right shade of paint for the library.”
“We'll
not
change the library, Trev. Nick selected the asparagus color himself, and I believe it will look wonderful with the dark woods in there.”
Trevor pulled a face. “Really! What has that man done to so thoroughly manipulate you?” Under his breath, he mumbled, “Besides giving you twenty-five thousand bloody guineas.”
“May I remind you, it is his house,” Fiona said.
Trevor regarded her through narrowed eyes. “By God, the man must be devilishly good in bed!”
“Trevor! You've most certainly overstepped the bounds of propriety this time. You may be my oldest friend, but I cannot have you speaking of such deeply personal matters.”
Laughing heartily, Trevor eyed her. “Because I'm your oldest friend, you can't hide things from me, darling. You're falling in love with the handsome Cit you've married!”
She shrugged. “It most certainly is
not
your business whether I love my husband or not.” Of course, she wasn't
in love
with Nick, though she was coming to love him. Being in love was for those whose lives had been intertwined since childhood. Like with her and Warwick. But she would never repeat such a belief to Trevor. She owed it to Nick to convince everyone that she was in love with her husband. After all, he had done so much for her.
Her thoughts flitted to Randy, as they did every hour of the day. Tensing, she said a prayer for Randy's safe return.
“To return to the subject of your husband's library, I agree the green is luscious with the dark woods, but don't you think one room of dark wood's incongruous when all the rest of the rooms are bright and trimmed with gleaming white millwork and cornices?”
“To be an aesthetic purist, you are correct,” she said, “but this is not a monument to good taste. It's a home. Nick wants the warmth of a library with dark woods, and I agree with him. All of our acquaintances who have the Palladian homes also manage to keep the traditional libraries.”
Trevor gave a haughty harrumph. “And I thought Birmingham House was going to be revolutionary!”
“That was never our intent. Weâyou and I and Nickâwished it to be beautiful. Nothing more. In fact, I don't think Nick would be comfortable were the house to be too much a departure from the traditional. He's quite stodgy, you know.”
“I really know very little about himâthough I must say he has fine taste in women. You and Diane Foley are both quite magnificent.”
Fiona stiffened. “I beg that you not speak of that woman in this house.”
Trevor broke out laughing. “I prove my point. You
are
in love with him.”
“Really, Trevor,” she said with a stomp of her good foot, “I refuse to have this conversation with you.”
At that moment the drawing room door came fully open, and Nick strode into the room. “Can't have what conversation?” he asked, skewering Trevor with a menacing glare.
“Trevor and I don't see eye to eye on the coloration of the library at the new house, dearest.”
Tall and exceedingly handsome in charcoal breeches and finely tailored black coat, Nick crossed the room and kissed Fiona's cheek. “How is your leg, my dear?”
“Tolerable,” she said with resignation.
His brows furrowed, then he turned to Trevor. “What is the dispute over the library?”
“The dispute, sir, has been settled. Lady Fiona is, as always, correct.” Flicking a glance to Fiona, Trevor said, “I must be on my way. I've still to order that royal blue fabric for Birmingham's new bedchamber.” He turned and nodded at Nick. “Your servant, Birmingham.”
When he was gone, Fiona asked, “Are you quite all right, dearest?”
Nick flicked her an amused gaze. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because it's but half past two in the afternoon. You're never home at this time.”
“And you're worried over my welfare?” he said with amusement. “One would think you a concerned wife.”
“Were you infirm, I certainly
would
care. I'm your wife, after all.”
He smiled and came to sit on the settee closest to her invalid's chair. “As it happens, I was concerned about you. I know you're beastly sick of these surroundings, and when I saw how brilliantly the sun shone today I decided I'd come take you on an excursion. Where, Mrs. Birmingham, would you like to go?”
The prospect of an afternoon outing was as welcome as rain after a drought. “Oh, Nick, I'm so very eager for an outing. Could we go to our new house? Trevor said the blue saloon is complete, and I'm dying to see it.”
“Then it's to Piccadilly we go.” He summoned a footman to hoist her invalid's chair on top of the carriage, then he swept Fiona up into his arms and carried her to the coach.
On their way to the new house, she said, “I had a nice chat with Emmie today.”
Nick tensed, and it was a moment before he spoke. “And how did you find the little scamp?”
“Besides being exceedingly pretty, I found her manners to be all that could be desired.”
Though she didn't hear a sound, she could almost have sworn that Nick exhaled with relief. His whole countenance relaxed. Emmie must be very important to him.
“I assure you I was perfectly kind to her, but I must tell you the poor dear broke into tears.”
He whirled toward her, his face clouded with worry.
“She confessed that she was afraid that since you've married me you will no longer find her your favorite girl.”
Fiona had thought he might chuckle at his daughter's feminine jealousy, but instead he looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Were you able to assuage her fears?”
How had Nick known that is precisely what Fiona tried to do? That she would not look upon the child as her rival, as other stepmothers throughout history certainly had? “I told her she was your favorite girl, and that I am your favorite woman, and that your heart is very large and in it you've chambers for all those you love.”
Nick took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you.”
“Thank
you
for having a chamber in your heart just for your vexing wife!”
His jet eyes whisked over her. “You're not vexing.”
“You must admit this wretched injury has been most vexing, and now you're missing a session of the Exchange because of me.”
“Because of you I've an excuse to enjoy this glorious day.”
Glorious it was, despite the frigid air. As they pulled up to the new house, she was sorry that she hadn't thought to let Emmie see it. Tomorrow she would instruct Miss Beckham to bring her here, and she would arrange for Trevor to conduct a tour for the sole benefit of the master's daughter.
“What shall you name the house?” Fiona asked.
“We'll name it together. Have you any ideas?”
“Goodness, no. Do you know, Nick, it has never occurred to me that I would ever come into possession of a brand new house.”
He nodded. “Because the houses in your family have been there for generations.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
He lifted her from the carriage and installed her in the invalid's chair the coachman had taken down, then Nick wheeled her through the entry courtyard, tipped her weight to the back as he rolled her up the steps, and they came to pause in the opulent entry hall that centered the house.
“Trevor commended you on your selection of chandeliers,” she said.
His gaze swept over the ceilings. “They are rather sparkling.”
She giggled.
They went first to the China red dining room for which she and Trevor had selected a twenty-five-foot-long table and some two dozen matching chairs, all made of rich mahogany. The cabinetmaker had made the suite for the Duke of Richmond's country house, but owing to the delay in the duke's remodeling agreed to allow the Birminghams to have it while he built another for the duke. Fiona's gaze leaped from the table to the scarlet silken draperies, which went well with the heavy strokes of pure gold that brushed the room.
Fiona's glance flicked to Nick, whose eyes shimmered as he surveyed the room. “You, my dear wife, have exceeded my expectations. The room is lovely.” He frowned. “And I suppose your little friend is also to be congratulated. I must say he has extraordinary taste.” Nick walked to the gleaming table and ran a hand over its polished surface. “This is very fine wood, indeed.”
“Trevor found the cabinetmaker. He apprenticed with Sheraton.”
“Then I'm indebted to Trevor Simpson.”
“We must go see the blue saloon. It's the only other room that's finished now.”
Nick was appropriately complimentary over the saloon. Its walls had been covered with an embossed silk damask of a subtle floral pattern, a much lighter shade of blue than the rich royal blue of the silken draperies. The settees were upholstered in rich, royal blue silk that was speckled with brilliant gold stars. He walked straight to the matching pairs of game tables that flanked either side of the fireplace, and he touched the smooth surface of one. “The loveliest game tables I've ever seen.”
“That's what Trevor said. I selected them,” she added smugly.
He turned to gaze at her with a deep, pensive expression on his rugged face. “Have I told you,” he said in a low, mesmerizing voice, “that I'm very happy you picked me out?”
Her heart fluttered in her breast. She thought it almost stopped beating as she bore his penetrating gaze. After several seconds, she gathered her composure and offered a flippant reply. “Must you always remind me that
I
picked you? That's hardly gallant of you.”
“I did have the good sense to return to you, drop to one knee, and beg you to marry me,” he said with equal flippance.
Chapter 12
The bloody waiting was what William hated most. He had arrived on the third and immediately spoken to the innkeeper, a mustachioed man named Gilberto who spoke heavily accented English. “My name is William . . . Hollingsworth,” he had said, “and I believe a letter will be delivered to me here in the next few days.” After removing a bag of gold coins from his pocket, he handed it to Gilberto. “I'm willing to pay handsomely for youâor one of your employeesâto present my letter to the person who's delivering the letter to me.” From his breast pocket, William withdrew his letter and handed it to the man. “There will be another pouch of coins when I have proof that you've followed my directions.”
Gilberto's eyes widened, and a smile leaped to his face. “I be happy to see that the letter of yours is delivered into the right hands and will also alert my staff.”
That first day, once the letter situation had been handled, William had traveled to Lisbon with four armed postilions, five outriders who were also armed, and three guards sharing the carriage with him. Within a matter of a few hours, William bought up twenty-five thousand pounds worth of French francs, confident the city had been depleted of French currency. After securing the francs beneath the seats of the carriage, they returned to Figueria by nightfall.
On the fifth William received the message from the viscount's captors, with Gilberto attesting to the fact the messenger had indeed been given William's letter. The bandits' messageâa demand to meet in the mountainsâwas negated by William's own instructions.
The eighth was yesterday, and he'd still had no word about the exchange. William began to wonder if the bandits were ignoring the instructions conveyed in his own letter. Would they be waiting up in the mountains for him? If he botched this, Nick would never forgive him.
What if something had happened to the viscount? Surely he hadn't died. If anything happened to Lord Agar, Nick would not be happy. He remembered how adamant Nick was that Lord Agar's safety was his chief concern. Obviously, Nick would do anything to keep that wife of his happy. Whether he knew it or not, his brother had fallen in love with Lady Fiona.
William was getting bloody tired of the inn's tavern and even more tired of the incessant Portuguese, which he did not understand as well as he understood Spanish. As he was swigging a glass of port late in the afternoon of the ninth, Gilberto approached him and spoke in a low voice. “The man you've been waiting for has arrived, Mr. Hollingsworth. Come with me.”
William sped after the innkeeper, who led him to a small office behind the reception desk. There stood a rather tall Spaniard dressed in a battered uniform of the Spanish army. The man's black eyes bore into William. “You are Señor Hollingsworth?”
“That is the name I'm using,” William said.
The Spaniard glared. “You will instruct your men to lay down their arms now.”
“First I must see Lord Agar.”
A frown etching his dark face, the Spaniard finally said, “Come with me.”
William followed him from the inn, across the plaza where his men guarded the wagon bearing the ransom money, and along the main road out of town. It was almost dusk, and William hoped like hell they could resolve this before night blackened the village.
After two more blocks they came to a wall of mounted men, at least twenty of them. William quickly scanned the group. Amidst all the dark faces there was one fair one: Randolph, Viscount Agar, whose hands were tied behind his back. His blond hair hung ragged, like his soiled Guard's uniform. Unable to shave for several weeks, the viscount had sprouted a red beard.
William nodded, then addressed the man who had accompanied him. “You may come with me back into the city and observe that all my men will disperse and lay down their arms before your men ride into the plaza with Lord Agar.”
The Spaniard glared, then nodded.
Once back in the plaza, William walked to its center, drew a breath, and shouted, “I'm calling all my Englishmen to join me at once in the plaza.”
Within ninety seconds, all twelve riflers formed a circle around William and the Spaniard, then one by one each man walked to the center of the plaza and laid down his rifle.
“Will you need further proof that my men will not provoke you?” William asked.
The Spaniard's gaze whisked around the plaza and settled on the old church's bell tower. “I will take a look in the church, if you please.”
“Go right ahead,” William said.
A moment later, the Spaniard rejoined him.
“Satisfied?” William asked.
“Yes.”
Then the Spaniard did a peculiar thing. He strolled to the pile of arms and plucked out a rifle. For just a second, William froze with fear. Then the man fired a shot into the sky.
The air swished from William's lungs. He did not like the Spaniard's crude way of delivering a message to his men.
A moment later a great wave of tattered Spanish deserters began to ride into the city, kicking up dust from the unpaved street. Their leader's gaze swung from William to the wagon.
“You're free to inspect the coins,” William said, nodding toward the wagon.
Following their leader's instructions, the Spaniards pried off the crate lids. Four wooden boxes bulged with the guineas, the gold shimmering under the waning sun. The men raked their hands through the staggering amount of clanging coins, their swarthy faces lifted in mirth.
“We've kept our part of the bargain,” William said. “Now you will release Lord Agar.”
His eyes glittering, the Spaniard strode to the viscount's horse and untied the bindings on Randolph's hands. “
Vamos,
” he said.
Randolph winced as he dismounted, then he limped toward William.
In the meantime, the Spaniards had hitched the cart to one of their horses and began to head out of town, leaving behind a small contingent of men to assure the Englishmen did not re-arm themselves.
“I'm Agar, your servant, sir,” Randolph said to William.
William effected a bow. “William Birmingham, at your service, my lord.”
“I well know the name Birmingham,” Randolph said. “The bankers who are richer than nabobs. You are one of them?”
“I am.”
“How, might I ask, was my sister able to enlist your help?”
William did not answer for a moment. Then he drew a breath and said, “By marrying my brother.”
Randolph gasped as if he'd been struck by mortar. His eyes shut tightly as a pained expression furrowed his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Â
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Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Birmingham began moving into their new mansion five days after Nick had carried her through its threshold to inspect the blue saloon. Nick had not favored moving until Fiona's leg was healed, fearing that it would be too taxing for her. She had countered by assuring him it would be much easier for her to oversee the completion of the furnishing were she in residence. Nick gave in. It seemed there was nothing he could deny her.
Over the course of the three days it took to move their household, Fiona positioned herself at the base of the central stairway so that sheâwith help from Mrs. Pauleyâcould direct the movers. To appease her husband, she sat in her invalid's chair and propped the wax-plastered leg on another chair to keep down the swelling.
Were he delirious with a raging fever, Trevor could not have stayed away. He happily strutted to and fro, barking orders to her servants. When he saw the scratching and scuffing to the polished marble entry floors, he nearly had apoplexy. “We really must cover this lustrous marble with rugs from the old house while these careless creatures traipse across it.” He shot a disdainful look at the offenders. “We can remove the blight when they finish,” he said with a shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders. So Turkey rugs from the old house served their purpose for three days.
During those three days the cabinetmaker had delivered the remainder of the newly ordered furnishings, and drapers were scaling tall ladders to install silken window coverings, as other servants hung priceless paintings on the newly painted walls.
On the evening of the third day, Nick came home early. He had been worried about Fiona all day. She was trying to do too much and sleeping too little. He was frightfully afraid she would become ill, and in her delicate state, he feared . . . the worst. This house that he'd once thought his crowning achievement could very well be his curse if it caused him to lose Fiona, who was more dear to him than a hundred palaces.
As the eldest child, Nick was used to being responsible for his siblings, but he'd never before been so consumed with worry over his brothers and sister as he was over this wife of his. Was the perpetual, nagging worry part of being a husband? Perhaps it was the terrifying vision of her tumbling down the stairs that had him fearing for her life every hour of the day.
He paused inside the doorway and watched as his weary wife examined a half-dozen bolts of silk that Trevor was showing her. Her leg was propped on the chair as Nick had instructed, but he could tell by the awkward way she kept shifting it that it must be hurting. To make him even more concerned, her milky white skin seemed even paler, more tinged with blue.
Drawing in a deep breath and striving not to allow her to see how upset he was, he strode to her, removed the silk from her hands, returning it to Trevor. “You, Mrs. Birmingham, have done quite enough for one day,” he said sternly, bending to kiss her cheek. “Allow me to wheel you to the drawing room.”
He cringed as she slowly set her leg down, and when they reached the saloon, he swooped her up and deposited her on the sofa. “Stretch out your leg on the sofa, love,” he instructed.
Trevor stood just inside the doorway, watching with amusement. “I shall take my leave of Adonis and Artemis. If you two get any cozier, I believe I'll turn blood red.”
“What a wicked mind you have,” Fiona said, her eyes flashing with mirthâuntil she met her husband's scowl.
Once Trevor had departed, Nick softened. “You're going to relax and have a large glass of madeira. Doctor Birmingham's orders.”
“Yes, master.”
He poured two glasses and came to sit beside her. “You look devilishly tired, my dear. I've told you, you're doing too much.”
Her cheeks dimpling, she tried to effect a scowl. “How flattering you are! Every lady longs to hear that she looks devilishly tired.”
His arm settled across her shoulders. “Oh, you're still quite lovely, but you won't be if you should go into a decline.”
She turned to him. “I'm appreciative that you care for my welfare, Nick. Truly. But your worry's misplaced. I've merely broken my leg. I'll be healed and back to new in a few more weeks. My health's excellent.”
“Good sleep's vital to good health, and I know you've not been sleeping.”
“The perils of sleeping with one's husband,” she said dryly. “You know me too well.” She flicked a tuft of hair from his stern brow. “Which room shall we sleep in tonight, dearest?”
The vixen!
She was deliberately being seductive with him. “Mine,” he growled, nibbling on her delectable neck. “My new one. I propose that all the Birmingham babes be conceived on the same bed.” Realizing what he had just said, Nick went stiff. He must school himself not to be so transparent. He must not allow Fiona to know how thoroughly besotted he was over her, how he was coming to long for her to grow plump with his babes.
She stiffened too. “Then,” she finally said, “perhaps when we name our house we could choose one of my old family namesâto bridge the two families.”
“I would never have been so presumptuous.” She took a long sip on her wine, then handed her glass to him. “Do you object?”
“Not at all. Have you any ideas?”
“My mother's mother was a Menger. I like the idea of Menger House. It's a solid old name but has no aristocratic bearers who've attached the name to another house.”
Nick pursed his lips. “I like the sound of it, too. Menger House. Very solid.”
“Like you,” she said sweetly.
He could ravage her here on the satin sofa! Good Lord, he'd be happy when her leg was mended and he could thoroughly love her again. Though their bedroom activities had brought immense pleasure to both parties, nothing was as wondrous as feeling himself
inside
her.
Nothing on earth.
He had best change the subject or he'd be babbling declarations of his affection. And he could not allow himself to do that. “Does your brother have any idea that the monies from the estate are gone?” he asked.
“I don't know. When Papa was alive, we knew there had been many financial setbacks, but I doubt if Randy understood the depth of the setbacks. Randy's really not awfully good about money.”